What I do on the weekends...

  It begins with a... feeling.  Standing in line, you review the details of the ticket you printed at home or at work.  You read the lines you’ve read repeatedly every day leading up to this moment, sometimes multiple times per sitting in multiple sittings each day.  The folds of the paper exhibit the fragility of repeatedly handled paper.  Proudly adorned with food stains and water rings, proclaiming for the world that you lived with this ticket on your person.  You ate, slept, and dreamt of this.  You anxiously texted and tweeted every friend that matters in that moment and made it a “family event.”  You posted on Facebook with various obscure lyrics that only aficionados would “like” and “cool kids” would finish.  (The lame ones name the song and criticize how old it is… jk…but really.)  Your entire existence was consumed by the anticipation of tonight. Armed with the brightly beaded, playful bracelets that you created with your friends whilst listening to this new mixtape or that Pandora station, you look at the people in the long, stagnant “will call” line and muse to yourself, “noobs.” 

            While you stand there waiting, you pass the time discussing what tracks you hope to hear, what things your friend had to go back and get from the car, and which outfit is most flattering and unflattering of your fellow “line prisoners.”  You pray that you fight off the feelings of your “pregame” and that you can get through the door subtly and without suspicion, double-checking your stash spot to make sure you really can’t feel what it hides.

At long last, it’s your turn.  You relinquish your grip on the parchment that symbolized everything you are about to experience.  Using your real or fake identification, you confirm to The Man that you rage but can do so responsibly.  Oh, that feeling.  The goose prickles covering your forearms and the back of your neck are invasive, yet comforting.  The responsible adults of the evening award you with another bracelet of paper/plastic or humiliate you with large black marks to signify your exclusion from the liquids you both know you already consume regularly.  (But who cares?  It washes off with soap anyways.) 

Then, you wait.  You want to stay with the group, so you wait on the coat depositor and the will-call sadist.  You, as a group, go to the bathroom.  Analyzing your appearance, voiding any baggage, and ensuring an on-point, group entrance.  (I mean, you shopped online for hours, looking for that bright neon furry or bandana.  It must be properly worn.)  After all, you’re family.  And away you go. 

The room is crowded; you can feel the heat.  The aura of moving, gyrating bodies waiting with bated breath for the show to begin is palpable, but you live for this. 

The opening music isn’t simply sound, but a flood of sensation encompassing your entire being.  It tingles across your epithelium and tickles your obsession for bass.  Akin to the most ridiculous foreplay, you know the best part is still yet to come.

You scour for minutes to find the “sweet spot” for group dancing, jumping, standing, and talking.  Just close enough to feel the bass, but with room to breathe without the oppressive glares of security.

You can’t believe it’s here.  Your heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings in mid-flight. 

The lights dim down. 

The crowded yells out in excitement.  AHHHHHHH!!!!! 

Then, the bass hits hard, and in unison, the entire room is moving.  If the “will call” line can hear this, you know they’re shaking it, too.  In that moment, you are all one.  Everything important to you is in that room or on that stage.  In THAT moment, you are beyond reality.  Time is frozen. 

Then, you blink. 

The lights give you the sense of security that this is, in fact, real. 

You breathe to immerse yourself in the moment. 

Then, you blink.

You look at the smiles all around you, at the love pouring out of each living soul.  You concentrate to absorb this feeling to make the seemingly, everlasting purgatory until the next show more bearable.

Then, you blink.

You dance, you laugh.  You rage at the drops.

Then, you look, and it’s over. :(

EDIT: NOW, here's something delicious for you to enjoy.